Home Alone
by AnbarElectrum
Summary: He'd almost forgotten silence. One-shot.


_**A/N: Or, to elaborate, a bittersweet take on post-Ceremonial Duel life. 'Parting is such sweet sorrow' and all that. The idea here was not really to dwell on/angst over the **_**emotional **_**implications of Yami's absence as the psychological ones—what do you **_**do **_**when the voice in your head, the one that's made up a considerable part of your life and psyche for **_**years, **_**suddenly isn't there? How does that affect you?**_

_**And, well, the Yami-letter has been sitting in my docs file pretty much since I discovered the series finale. Seemed like a good time to use it.**_

_**Can be read either as a canon-compliant standalone or as a prequel to **_**Brush, **_**depending on whether you view the latter as much-needed post-series TastesLikeDiabetes coping device (which was its designated purpose in life) or an abomination unto all that is good and canon. Quite frankly, even I am unsure as to exactly which it qualifies as, but as long as there are those who read it, up it shall stay.**_

_**No yaoi, except for the inevitable un-subtle subtext. No romance at all, actually, except for some mild Revolutionshipping/Peachshipping/Spiritshipping if you tilt your head and squint really, really hard.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

Their group had dissipated at the airport, after a moment or two of awkward silence. Tristan and Joey had each rested a hand on Yugi's shoulder in a show of camaraderie. Joey had made some kind of a joke, maybe something about having to actually pay attention in maths class now. Yugi wasn't entirely certain. Téa had been one of the first to leave, lost in grief of her own, grief and regret, though in the days and weeks and months to come this mess would only pull them closer.

But not yet. Not tonight. They were both still too raw for that.

Ironically, it was Kaiba who managed to offer him the most comfort, halting the young man's departure with a hand on his arm. Even when Yugi looked up and met his eyes, the taller man didn't speak. His eyes—chips of sapphire ice that, for now, had melted—said all that was needed: sort of sorry-but-proud and surprisingly comforting, although the challenge still lingered there because Yugi was Kaiba's rival, too.

There was another look there too, a look that Yugi had never expected to see again after noon yesterday, a look that he hadn't ever realised _was _a look because he'd only really seen it in one man's eyes, seen it bright and fierce and purposeful. Certainly he hadn't expected to find that look, that look that was so quintessentially _him_, in the eyes of Seto Kaiba. Now that he had, he could put words to it, words that had always belonged with it only they'd always been spoken before.

_It's alright. I've got you._

Yugi had just nodded, and Kaiba's lips twitched into a smile. A warm, fragile, tender little smile that Yugi hadn't seen on his face since Duelist Kingdom, when Mokuba ran into his big brother's arms. Almost absently, Kaiba reached out a hand and ruffled Yugi's hair the way he did Mokuba's sometimes, and Yugi laughed softly and gave a smile of his own.

Kaiba looked torn between _pleased_ and _mortified_, and lifted his hand away.

"See you in class," he said gruffly, turning away. But he was still smiling.

"Yeah," Yugi replied quietly. Then he, too, turned, and followed his grandfather out to the car.

Solomon was quiet too, on the way home. Yugi saw a bit of an echo of the way he felt in his grandfather. No matter what they knew, no matter what the truth was, Solomon Motou did not look like a man who had helped fulfil an ancient prophecy and bring an era of peace to the world. He looked like a man who had just watched one of his grandsons die and wasn't allowed to tell anyone or even act too sad about it. Which, Yugi reflected morbidly, was rather true, spirit or no.

What's done is done, and no denying it had had to _be _done. But that didn't mean any of them had to _like _it.

"I'm going to go unpack," Yugi said abruptly as soon as they arrived at the game shop.

"Alright," Solomon said, seemingly shaking off his reverie as he followed his grandson inside. "I'll deal with my bag later. Right now, I'll see if I can't find us something to eat. Let me know if you need help."

Yugi nodded in acknowledgement and pulled his duffel bag over his shoulder, heading for the stairs.

"Yugi?" his grandpa's voice came again. The young man turned, a query in his violet eyes.

Solomon seemed uncertain, almost wary, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing—not an expression Yugi often saw on him.

"Just know that I'm still here," he said quietly.

Biting painfully at the inside of his lip and desperately trying to ignore the sudden watery quality to his vision, Yugi nodded again, a curt gesture. Then he turned around once again, fighting the urge to run up the remaining stairs and all the way to his room. He managed a calm walk.

It was dark in his bedroom, and silent but for the whooshing hiss of the air conditioning through the vent set into the carpeted floor. Yugi could just make out the point where the slanted ceiling met the shortest wall. He'd closed the shutters before they'd left, so not even the streetlight outside illuminated the small space. For a moment, he contemplated opening them and letting the starlight in—on clear nights, despite Domino City's slight smog issue, they were bright enough that the orangey glow was barely even noticeable and you could just stand before and beneath the window, letting the light fall on you and staring up and up into the sky, unhindered by the surrounding buildings.

Of course, stargazing had never really been Yugi's thing, not even the introspective, contemplative Byronic sort that usually went on beneath that window. Still, the thought was tempting. A last grab at the sort of solidarity and togetherness that was forever lost to him now.

Yugi turned on the light instead, startled by how loud the switch seemed and wincing at the resultant explosion of light from beside him. He'd spent too long with the darkness to cope with its sudden withdrawal. As if _that_ wasn't rapidly becoming the story of his life…

Almost mechanically, he entered his bedroom, closing the door behind himself. He dropped his duffel bag on the floor in front of his wardrobe and took a seat on the edge of his bed, nominally in the middle but shifted ever-so-slightly towards the footboard. There was just enough room for another person to sit at his right, if they didn't mind being practically shoulder-to-shoulder with Yugi. The teen stared blankly at this spot, as if bemused at finding it empty.

_Pharaoh, I've had a bad day and I need to talk about it._

_Pharaoh, I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight._

_Pharaoh, I can't tell what's supposed to come next.  
_

_Yami, help me._

He didn't speak any of these thoughts aloud—didn't think them 'aloud', either. He could still tell the difference between _thinking _and _sending_; perhaps with time the line would blur as _sent_ thoughts vanished into the void beyond the torn, ragged edge of his too-quiet mind. Right now, though, the difference was to him nearly what most people perceived between thinking and speaking.

One of his hands drifted towards his stomach, searching for the familiar shape of the Puzzle. For a moment he could have sworn he felt warm, angular gold digging into his scarred palm, but all too swiftly the fancy faded and he found himself grasping at empty air, fingers catching on the edge of his jacket.

God. His jacket.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Yugi reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. He held it in his lap, his head bowed, eyes fixed upon it. It was just a standard sheet of paper out of one of his spiral-bound notebooks—torn down the dotted line, and who even did that when it was so easy to just yank it from the wire? Neat little blue lines, so very much at odds with the blue-black ink laid along them all arranged in sweeping curves and sloping angles. Yugi could just see these through the nearly-translucent white paper, unable to discern the exact letters they formed.

_I've never seen your handwriting before. Or maybe I've just never thought about it._

Yugi realised in that moment, staring down at this final message, that he might never be able to direct his thoughts _at himself_ again. That he might actually spend the rest of his life in a one-sided conversation with someone who was beyond replying.

Well, if these were the only words he'd ever have, the only way his partner could ever speak to him again…then it was probably best to get this over with.

Gingerly, feeling oddly afraid that he would somehow mar the paper and the words thereupon by his touch alone, Yugi unfolded the letter. And oh, _that_ hurt. He hadn't even thought about the way reading worked, the way you always seemed to read things in the voices of the people who wrote them. Yet it was still strangely comforting to hear the Pharaoh's voice resounding in his mind once again, even if it _was _only Yugi's imagination…

He didn't cry. His eyes prickled, his chest felt oddly tight, but he wasn't crying. In fact, he almost felt like smiling as he traced the _A_ in his partner's signature, seeing the edge of a little curl in the corner above and to the left of it—the start of a hastily-aborted _Y._ The Pharaoh may have loathed the routine and the mundane, but he was a creature of habit nonetheless. Now more than ever Yugi was determined to fight through this, to go on living and—

And his ears were ringing. Yugi realised that the air conditioner must have shut off, and a stillness had descended upon the all-but-empty room.

Re-folding the letter with slow, hushed movements, Yugi sat there, hardly daring to breathe because breathing was loud and it was just so _quiet._

So…quiet…

More than quiet.

_Silent._

Yugi knew the phrase 'you could have heard a pin drop'. This went beyond that. You _did_ hear a pin drop, even though one probably hadn't fallen within a mile of there because honestly who goes around dropping pins? You heard the sound even though it wasn't there because this wasn't just very quiet_,_ it was _utterly soundless._

Completely still.

This kind of silence didn't fall. It _crashed_, like a crack of thunder, so loud in its muteness that it blotted out even the _possibility_ of a sound. It lay thick and heavy and ominous in the air and Yugi couldn't breathe. If he could have he would have screamed in horror at the sheer _nothingness_ that had suddenly enveloped the room.

_there_

_was_

_no_

_sound_

_empty_

_silent_

_help_

On its own, Yugi's body remembered how to exhale and did so in a loud whoosh of air, breaking the silence and thus the horrified trance he'd sunken into, leaving him to catch his breath and will his racing heart to slow.

Four years, he realised. It had been four years since he'd last experienced total quiet, without so much as a shimmer of un-sound at the back of his mind where his other's own thoughts flickered in and out with all the speed and force of gunfire. Four years in which he was _never_ really alone, _never_ fully unaware, _never_ totally still. Four years in which he'd come to take for granted things that most people never experienced. He'd forgotten solitude, almost forgotten privacy, the way that thoughts were their own contained world that no one else could ever have access to.

He'd almost forgotten silence.

As the unnerving stillness settled in again, Yugi flinched. He stood, placed the letter carefully on his desk, and practically ran towards the door.

It would be awhile before he'd be at peace in the privacy of his room again. For now…for now his grandfather was here. And so was Kaiba. So were Joey and Tristan. So, in time, would Téa be, and he'd be there for them as well, because they were hurting too, and that was what family did when they were hurting, when they'd lost one of their own.

For now, he'd just have to find new ways not to be alone.

Later that night, as Solomon was on his way to bed, he paused outside his grandson's room. It was open ever so slightly, and he frowned to see it. Yugi hadn't left it that way for nearly…four years now?

Solomon pushed it open further and stepped quietly inside. The shutters were open too, and that was even stranger—Yugi had actually used to complain about the light from outside when he was trying to sleep, when he'd been younger and incapable of reaching the window on his own. By the combined light of the stars, moon, and streetlight, Solomon could see Yugi lying mercifully still in his bed. He'd half-expected to find his grandson in the throes of a nightmare, given the traumatic nature of many of his teenaged experiences. There _was_ something odd about his hair, though—odd by _Motou _standards, mind—and Solomon leaned closer curiously.

_Headphones?_

Solomon shook his head, not quite understanding but glad the boy had found _some_ way to cope without the Pharaoh's assistance, and moved to return to the hallway and thence to his own room to retire. But something on the desk caught his eye.

He _really_ shouldn't be snooping, he knew, but after everything that Yugi had been through lately—that they had _all_ been through—who could honestly blame him for being a little overprotective? Solomon's _elder_ grandson had gotten away with it all the time.

He approached the desk and lifted the paper, noting the way it was folded in thirds—a letter? Unfolding it, he saw the handwriting and felt his heart skip a beat.

_Yugi,_

_How do I begin? I've never had to worry about how to speak to you before. I know you—until recently, I knew you better than I knew myself._

_You've already begun to withdraw from me—for your own protection, I suspect. I am in part to blame for this as well; you cannot imagine the intense shock of suddenly knowing exactly who you are. Or perhaps you can; I know not what you felt at the moment of recollection. Were you with me, even then? Were you with me then, one last time? Autonomy I had always, but now independence, separateness. It wrenched my mind from yours, this sudden realisation that I was truly __other__,_ _not another you, but other __from__ you._

_Although it was this very knowledge I had been seeking, finding it was not all I hoped._

_Was it Battle City which marked the turning point? For I think it was then we began to realise that my search for identity might end in separation. From that point forward, my heart slowly began to break. Did yours? I knew once. Now I can't remember. Which thoughts were yours. Which thoughts were mine._

_I will miss you, I think. No, I know it. You have ever been my everything. That is not something easily forgotten, nor easy to cast off. I would give __anything__ to remain with you, standing by your side, if only it did not mean that neither you nor indeed anyone alive would ever be safe. I know that at this moment you, too, wish for that more than anything. But you would not wish to host my spirit forever. In time, you would long for your own life, to be free to live only for yourself and no one else—certainly not for a man long dead. You have begun to already, fretting that you are unimportant, that you exist in my shadow. That you deserve none of the credit which your friends attribute to you. Allow me to assure you, you deserve all of it and more. Indeed, that is why I am writing this letter—there will be little time to talk after the Ceremonial Duel, for I __will__ lose._

_How strange it seems, to write that. Yet it is true. You know me better than anyone else. My strengths—and my weaknesses. I know you will fight as hard as you can to give me my sending-off, to—how did you put it? To set me free. No matter how much it hurts you, you will win this duel. For that is your nature, little one: to do what must be done for the sake of others, and never for yourself. I hope for your sake that in time you'll learn to be a little selfish, sometimes. And yet I hope also that day never comes—I have always admired your noble spirit, my partner._

_Ishizu says that you were the final chapter in my story. That our upcoming duel is the last page. But how can you be my last chapter when once, you were my whole story? I know so much now, but so little makes sense. One thing holds in my mind, though: the knowledge that the end of my tale will allow yours to truly begin. For though mine comes to a close, yours is just getting started._

_Just promise me something, will you? Promise me that you'll make your story a good one. Lots of interesting characters and places, full of joys and yes, a few sorrows. Love, friendship, enough conflict to keep it interesting but never more than you can handle. And make it long, long enough that it will take many nights for you to tell me all of it when at last we meet again. For we will, aibou. That I swear._

_I remain ever yours._

_Atem_

Solomon just stood there a moment more, taking in his elder grandson's final message to his younger. Then, slowly, he smiled a bittersweet little smile and carefully returned the letter as he'd found it. He found himself wishing he could reach back across the years to Shimon and rest a hand on his precursor's shoulder.

_We made our mistakes,_ he would have said, _but we raised two good men, you and I._

And Shimon would have smiled sadly and said, _pray yours doesn't become a hero as well._

"Too late," Solomon murmured, and the smile became a little less bitter and a little more sweet as he looked at his sleeping grandson, feeling a surge of pride tinged with a tiny bit of fear. But then, that _had_ been the Pharaoh's last act of heroism, hadn't it—saving Yugi from ever having to share his fate.

"_Not even death itself could stop me from protecting the ones I love,"_ Yami had told him once, late at night when they were both tired and old and careworn. And he'd been right. In the end, death had been exactly what had allowed the Pharaoh to protect each and every one of them once and for all.

_Not just two _good_ men,_ Solomon realised, as the silence of the room carried the soft, tinny sounds of a piano through headphones towards him from the direction of Yugi's bed. _Two _great_ men._

And with a last look at the stars above, Solomon left his grandsons to their well-deserved rests.

* * *

_**A/N: I SWEAR to GOD that I wrote the whole they-grew-up-heroes thing before I ever watched**_**Supernatural _season 7. In fact, I wrote this literally the night before I watched the _pilot, _(yes I remember it down to the day don'tjudgeme) __and I literally just now realised the quasi-quoting of Bobby. So seriously, _completely _unintentional if any SPN fans are reading this._**

_**Reviews**** are, as always, most welcome. **_**WOW, **_**but I'm uploading a lot of 'fics this eve.  
**_


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